“Sorry I said anything, Cameron.  Didn’t know you knew her.”

“That’s all right.  Of course I don’t like to think she is being talked about.”

“The Cardews are always being talked about.  You couldn’t drop her a hint, I suppose?”

“She knows what I think about Louis Akers.”

He made a violent effort and pulled himself together.  “So it is Akers and Howard Cardew, and one’s a knave and one’s a poor bet.”

“Right,” said Mr. Hendricks.  “And one’s Bolshevist, if I know anything, and the other is capital, and has about as much chance as a rich man to get through the eye of a needle.”

Which was slightly mixed, owing to a repressed excitement now making itself evident in Mr. Hendricks’s voice.

“Why not run an independent candidate?” Willy Cameron asked quietly.  “I’ve been shouting about the plain people.  Why shouldn’t they elect a mayor?  There is a lot of them.”

“That’s the talk,” said Mr. Hendricks, letting his excitement have full sway.  “They could.  They could run this town and run it right, if they’d take the trouble.  Now look here, son, I don’t usually talk about myself, but—­I’m honest.  I don’t say I wouldn’t get off a street-car without paying my fare if the conductor didn’t lift it!  But I’m honest.  I don’t lie.  I keep my word.  And I live clean—­which you can’t say for Lou Akers.  Why shouldn’t I run on an independent ticket?  I mightn’t be elected, but I’d make a damned good try.”

He stood up, and Willy Cameron rose also and held out his hand.

“I don’t know that my opinion is of any value, Mr. Hendricks.  But I hope you get it, and I think you have a good chance.  If I can do anything—­”

“Do anything!  What do you suppose I came here for?  You’re going to elect me.  You’re going to make speeches and kiss babies, and tell the ordinary folks they’re worth something after all.  You got me started on this thing, and now you’ve got to help me out.”

The future maker of mayors here stepped back in his amazement, and Jinx emitted a piercing howl.  When peace was restored the F.M. of M. had got his breath, and he said: 

“I couldn’t remember my own name before an audience, Mr. Hendricks.”

“You’re fluent enough in that back room of yours.”

“That’s different.”

“The people we’re going after don’t want oratory.  They want good, straight talk, and a fellow behind it who doesn’t believe the country’s headed straight for perdition.  We’ve had enough calamity bowlers.  You’ve got the way out.  The plain people.  The hope of the nation.  And, by God, you love your country, and not for what you can get out of it.  That’s a thing a fellow’s got to have inside him.  He can’t pretend it and get it over.”

In the end the F.M. of M. capitulated.

It was late when Mr. Hendricks left.  He went away with all the old envelopes in his pockets covered with memoranda.